A Poem Thread

Discussion in 'Art & Culture' started by Angelus, Nov 9, 2002.

  1. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    And death shall have no dominion

    Dylan Thomas
    1914 –1953

    "And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead men naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Under the windings of the sea
    They lying long shall not die windily;
    Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
    Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
    Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
    And the unicorn evils run them through;
    Split all ends up they shan't crack;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    No more may gulls cry at their ears
    Or waves break loud on the seashores;
    Where blew a flower may a flower no more
    Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
    Though they be mad and dead as nails,
    Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
    Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
    And death shall have no dominion."
    C C likes this.
  2. Google AdSense Guest Advertisement

    to hide all adverts.
  3. C C Consular Corps - "the backbone of diplomacy" Valued Senior Member

    Revised down to 32 lines (among other changes), which better accommodates the animated GIF for next month.
    - - - - - - - - - - - -

    The Creeping Trumpet Vine (2024 version)

    This twilight is unpleasant.
    Rising for a steeper decline.
    Guess you're my next to final present
    from the creeping Trumpet Vine.

    Grateful you made the journey.
    How's life after glancing down?
    Whether ledge or on a morgue gurney,
    we're pushed by the family clown.

    Step out to the veranda.
    I'll get my tall cocktail of pills.
    We'll listen to wild propaganda:
    that earthy breeze through daffodils.

    Clouds of starlings have drifted.
    Your shadowland seems far behind.
    Somehow knew that it had been gifted
    by the creeping Trumpet Vine.

    You're such a patient figment.
    Wings akimbo like a swan.
    Imagination lacks commitment
    to keep a long-lost seraph gone.

    Nine months of tribulation.
    Several years that were benign.
    Then rain was copped and sunshine taken
    for the creeping Trumpet Vine.

    Visit more, we'll stay in touch.
    You've not aged since breathing was free.
    Sorry if I quizzed, inquired too much,
    about your ill reality.

    Many scapegoats to relive.
    So I surely should not malign.
    But there's always a symbol to give
    to the creeping Trumpet Vine.

    Magical Realist likes this.
  4. Google AdSense Guest Advertisement

    to hide all adverts.
  5. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    "Quiet friend who has come so far,
    feel how your breathing makes
    more space around you.

    Let this darkness be a bell tower
    and you the bell. As you ring,
    what batters you becomes your strength.

    Move back and forth into the change.
    What is it like, such intensity of pain?
    If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

    In this uncontainable night,
    be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
    the meaning discovered there.

    And if the world has ceased to hear you,
    say to the silent earth: I flow.
    To the rushing water, speak: I am."
    -- Rilke
  6. Google AdSense Guest Advertisement

    to hide all adverts.
  7. C C Consular Corps - "the backbone of diplomacy" Valued Senior Member


    Nobody can be lesser.
    Privilege is a "Yes, sir".
    Nature is an oppressor.
    Science is a suppressor.
    The West is an aggressor.
    A property possessor.
    Get yourself an assessor.
    Competition a stressor.
    Merits are a depressor.
    Please beg to your confessor.
    Who will be your successor?
    Humanities professor.

  8. Tiassa Let us not launch the boat ... Valued Senior Member

    Naomi Shihab Nye, 1998

    Because the eye has a short shadow or
    it is hard to see over heads in the crowd?

    If everyone else seems smarter
    but you need your own secret?

    If mystery was never your friend?

    If one way could satisfy
    the infinite heart of the heavens?

    If you liked the king on his golden throne
    more than the villagers carrying baskets of lemons?

    If you wanted to be sure
    his guards would admit you to the party?

    The boy with the broken pencil
    scrapes his little knife against the lead
    turning and turning it as a point
    emerges from the wood again

    If he would believe his life is like that
    he would not follow his father into war​

    Magical Realist likes this.
  9. Tiassa Let us not launch the boat ... Valued Senior Member

    Black Momma Math
    by Kimberly Jae, 2020

    If a jar of jelly is $2.98
    & a loaf of Hawaiian bread is $4
    Then how much bail money will I need when I kill everyone in my house
    for eating all the bread
    and jelly in 5 minutes?

    Black Momma Math
    If Black Momma has a two 17-year-old Black Boys
    What is the probability that they will come home in a body bag in the next 5 years?
    If Son A leaves Ferguson at 3pm traveling at 60 miles per hour and Son B leaves Baltimore at 5pm traveling at 50 miles per hour
    to drive to Florida,
    what time and which morgue
    will their bodies be delivered to
    when their music and Black Boy Joy inspire a stand your ground tango?
    Better yet,
    what is the cost of a funeral times 2 if a police officer pulls them over?
    If 6 out of 10 people have math anxiety,
    Then how many Black women out of 10 have murdered baby anxiety?

    Everyone says Black women can't math
    But we have been Black Momma mathing since the beginning of time
    They have been long divisioning us since Africa become too valuable to keep as a whole
    We've been reduced like fractions
    Told we're not equivalent
    Compared to and found wanting against each other
    even though we have the same common denominator
    We get broken down like quadratic equations
    Our squared roots have been cut in half
    Our ancestral variables are left unknown
    We're always solving for the y
    If distance equals rates times time
    And the rate of Blacks killed by cops is 9x more than everyone else
    Then how distant are we from legalized lynching?

    Black women are educated
    But being Black Momma provides a more specialized education
    Black Momma Philosophy
    If I let my son play outside with a toy gun and there are no news camera around to see it,
    when the police shoot him
    is it murder or self-defense?
    We already know which harsh truths everyone ignores until someone not Black validates us
    Is it possible that some people are just genetically predisposed to hate?
    How free is our will if our fate is decided by our melanin
    What is the meaning of Black lives when so many people don't think we matter?

    Black Momma Math
    If a jar of jelly is $2.98
    & a loaf of Hawaiian bread is $4
    But I'm too scared to let my babies go to the grocery store
    What is the probability that I am just delaying the inevitable?

  10. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

  11. Tiassa Let us not launch the boat ... Valued Senior Member

    Savage, or Thoughts on Reincarnation
    by Mandy Moe Pwint Tu, 2024

    I want to believe I'm on my last life.
    What is nirvana if not a kind of death?
    In a past life, a stranger asked the Buddha
    for his children. The Buddha offered him his eyes.
    Then, pulling the children, screaming,
    from the shivering rice barrels, he gave them
    away. Did the children ever forgive him?
    Did they have to because he was the Buddha?
    I stay awake, listening to my brother's breath
    as he sleeps in my corridor. A 6 am flight,
    a half-hug in the parking lot. I want one more life.
    This is the problem with reincarnation:
    you don't know if what you've lost
    is lost forever. Unless, I guess, you're the Buddha.
    His children escaped, by the way. Hid from
    their possessor in the cane grass, the silk reeds,
    and wove their way back home. I think
    they hugged their mother. I think the Buddha
    demanded understanding. I had to, he likely said.
    I wonder who they became in their next life.
    I wonder if the siblings stayed together,
    across this ever-shortening thread, never striving
    for nirvana because to achieve it would mean
    a kind of forsaking. And they learned—
    learned too young that fathers aren't
    to be trusted. In each life, the same
    karmic cycle. Silk reeds become waves
    become veranda floors. Then: the learned
    leaving. My brother and I are always
    looking for the ones left behind,
    even as we're leaving. Don't worry.
    The Buddha is not the forgiving kind.
    We don't care to be forgiven.

    C C and Magical Realist like this.
  12. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    "I will not die an unlived life.
    I will not live in fear
    of falling or catching fire.
    I choose to inhabit my days,
    to allow my living to open me,
    to make me less afraid,
    more accessible,
    to loosen my heart
    until it becomes a wing,
    a torch, a promise.
    I choose to risk my significance;
    to live so that which came to me as seed
    goes to the next as blossom
    and that which came to me as blossom,
    goes on as fruit."
    - Dawna Markova
  13. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

  14. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    "I love these raw moist dawns with
    a thousand birds you hear but can't
    quite see in the mist.
    My old alien body is a foreigner
    struggling to get into another country.
    The loon call makes me shiver.
    Back at the cabin I see a book
    and am not quite sure what that is."
    -- Jim Harrison
  15. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member


    by Franny Choi

    "To answer your question, yes,

    I find myself wanting less and less

    to fuck the dead boy who was mine

    before he was nothing.

    He is nine years younger than me now—a boy

    who still smokes blunts in his dorm room,

    by which I mean he does none of that

    because he is dead. Because his body

    is no body now, but wet earth.

    Meaning I should instead desire

    the bellies of flies. Moth wings

    unfolding wet from their shells.

    Should hunger for the fish that ate

    the fish that ate the plankton

    that took his once-body dust

    into its gullet. The boy whose body

    was the first to enter mine is breathing

    from too many mouths now.

    He is gilled, wet leaves, coral,

    all things that live but don’t know it,

    don’t know they were once a boy

    who peeled off my wet jeans,

    kissed the insides of my knees

    in his parents’ house, who came to me

    love-addled one night, saying,

    listen no matter listen

    always i’ll never"
    Last edited: Apr 3, 2024
  16. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    "Even this late it happens:
    the coming of love,
    the coming of light.
    You wake and the candles
    are lit as if by themselves,
    stars gather,
    dreams pour into your pillows,
    sending up warm bouquets
    of air.

    Even this late the bones
    of the body shine
    and tomorrow's dust flares
    into breath."

    Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!

    Mark Strand, The Coming of Light
  17. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    "I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
    I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

    I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
    If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

    You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
    But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
    And filter and fibre your blood.

    Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
    Missing me one place search another,
    I stop somewhere waiting for you."

    Walt Whitman
  18. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    The End


    "Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
    Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
    When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
    Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.

    When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
    When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
    No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
    When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky

    Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
    And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
    Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
    When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end."
  19. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    “In the Country of Resurrection,” Ada Limón

    "Last night we killed a possum,
    out of mercy, in the middle of the road.

    It was dying, its face was bloody,
    the back legs were shattered. The mistake

    I made was getting out of the car
    (you told me not to), but I wanted to be

    sure, needed to know for sure, that it could
    not be saved. (Someone else had hit it.)

    The sound it was making. The sound
    folded me back into the airless car.

    Do it, do it fast, I lowered my head
    until the thud was done. You killed it quiet.

    We drove home under the sickle moon,
    laundry gone cold and dry on the line.

    But that was last night. This morning
    the sun is coming alive in the kitchen.

    You’ve gone to get us gas station coffee
    and there is so much life all over the place."
    C C likes this.
  20. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

    What the Living Do
    By Marie Howe

    "Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
    And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
    waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

    It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
    the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.

    For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
    I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
    wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

    I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
    Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
    What you finally gave up.

    We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
    whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

    But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
    say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
    for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

    I am living. I remember you."

Share This Page